


Cream and Sugar

by letthemysterybe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/F, Hermione Granger is a Gay Disaster, Useless Lesbian Hermione Granger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:36:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26032003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letthemysterybe/pseuds/letthemysterybe
Summary: the coffee shop au that absoultely no one asked for.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Comments: 102
Kudos: 284





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this will be at least another chapter, maybe two! very minimally edited. may or may not be based on actual events from my time as a barista.

The woman is gorgeous. Black hair, full lips, pale skin, perfect ti—

"One half-caff oat milk latte, please."

And her voice, smooth as silk and dark as the night sky.

"Hot or iced?"

Hermione is grateful she has a script to follow, otherwise she's sure the only thing coming out of her mouth would be something along the lines of 'ggguhhhh, fldofjsdaf fhhhgh.'

"Hot, please."

 _Hot_ is fucking right. God, this woman is so hot. And Hermione is so DUMB, falling in love with her in the span of thirty seconds, envisioning their first kiss, their wedding, their two cats and the dog they find and don't have the heart to get rid of after they've nursed it back to health (Hot Woman is not a dog person, she insists, and neither is Hermione, but together, they fall in love with Bitsy, the Staffy/Lab mix who used to live under a bridge. It's Hot Woman who says it, one night, while they are curled up on the couch together, both reading and playing footsie underneath the throw blanket they chose together when Hot Woman moved in and they decided to redecorate. Hermione hears her sigh, the sigh that Hermione has come to learn means Hot Woman is thinking deeply about something, that she's conflicted. Hot Woman sighs her sigh and Hermione looks up to see her looking fondly at Bitsy, who is chewing a chew toy shaped like Big Ben, slobbering all over it in front of the fire, Minnie and Butterscotch The Cats swatting playfully at her tail. "What's up, baby?" asks Hermione, (in this fantasy she has swag and calls people 'baby' and shit, you see) and Hot Woman says, "I think we should keep her. We have the room." Casually, as if they both hadn't fallen madly in love with her. "I think you're right," says Hermione, and the next day they get pictures taken for their Christmas card — the five of them, Bitsy, Minnie, Butterscotch, Hermione, and Hot Woman Hot Latte, in Santa hats. It's adorable).

"Did it not go through?"

"Hmm?"

Hermione comes back to Planet Earth, and Hot Woman and her Big Black Eyes are staring up at her, concerned. She belatedly realizes that she's holding the woman's debit card and staring at the card reader, which keeps flashing APPROVED. PRESS ENTER TO CONTINUE and she hasn't pressed enter yet, and she has no idea how long she's been spacing out and envisioning her future with this beautiful stranger. A line has formed behind said stranger, though.

"My card. Is there something wrong? Did it not go through?" She fiddles with the straps of her purse, and Hermione wonders what else those fingers like to fiddle with.

"Oh, sorry, no."

"It didn't?" Hot Woman's eyebrows furrow, and God It's So Cute Fuck Fuck Fuck —

"No! No, I mean, no, it didn't not go through. It did go through!"

"Oh, uh, okay." Hot Woman smiles easily, and seems relieved, and boy is Hermione obsessed with that smile, and now that she knows what it looks like, she adds it to the mental image of their Christmas portrait, which until now had featured a demure smirk rather than the crooked curl of a plump red lip and a hint of pearly white teeth.

Hermione presses the button and hastily tears the receipt and hands it to her, along with her card and a pen.

"Bottom is me and top is you."

Hot Woman stops in the middle of signing and glances up at her, eyebrow quirked and lip twitching minutely. It's so fucking sexy, and a departure from the cuteness of just a moment ago, and Hermione knows she picked up on her ridiculous Freudian slip, because she's being sized up now, narrowed eyes studying her, as if asking 'Did you just — ?'

Yes, yes she did. And she's sorry, but only a little bit. Except, fuck, she hopes she's not about to get fired for accidentally sexually harassing a customer. Damage control QUICK QUICK QUICK —

"The receipts, I mean — the one on top is your copy." Hermione blushes, and she's sure Hot Woman can read every thought in her dumb gay brain, that she can see the Christmas card and their three pets, that she can see the wallpaper Hermione decorated their fake apartment with — does she like it? Or has Hermione picked the wrong color?

Fuck. Hermione is an open book, and always has been, and she knows she must be a bright red, sweating sight for sore, beautiful, impossibly deep black eyes. She has to reel it in and calm down, she has a whole ass shift to work and she can't afford to fall this hard for every beautiful woman that walks in the door.

"Of course." Is all Hot Woman says. She smiles to herself and finishes signing with a flourish.

And then she's gone, off to wait in a corner. She's on her phone, speaking to someone brusquely and with authority, which is super hot even though Hermione can't make out the words. She's clearly important and has places to be. Hermione doesn't trust anyone else with the drink, they'll get it wrong, they won't be quick enough, and Hot Woman can't afford to be held up from whatever important business she has to attend to. She'll have to make it herself.

"Ginny? Can you take over the register? I'll make drinks."

"Sure, sure!" her ginger-headed friend replies, and bounces over to the register to take over the lunch rush. This has always been the better dynamic, Hermione on the coffee bar and Gin talking to the customers. Ginny has a habit of oversteaming milk and Hermione has a habit of being a simpering gay bumblefuck who loses her comprehension of basic english when a pretty girl walks in, so.

Hermione's on a mission now. Make the perfect drink for the perfect woman. She clutches the receipt like it's a map to buried treasure, and she reads the order over thrice more, making sure she's gotten it exactly right. Her heart thumps when she sees that Hot Woman has tipped well over 20%, and maybe, just maybe, that interaction was not as mortifying as Hermione thought it was. Right. Nice. She notes the elegant scrawl of Hot Woman's signature, and of course it's beautiful, just like the rest of her. It's the type of looping script that's trained into high-society girls at boarding school — except it's so loopy, so scripty, that Hermione can't actually make out the name. And the name printed on the receipt isn't actually a name, but a business: _Black Enterprises._ Company card. Hot Woman's identity remains a mystery. Sigh.

Oh wait, fuck. Hermione doesn't know her name, so Hermione can't call her name, which means Hermione'll have to go bring the drink to her herself, which — well, it's not so bad actually. Although Percy will definitely notice and will definitely give her a demerit. Fucking Percy. Running his family's business like it's the damn military.

She flips the switch of the coffee grinder and gets to work, scooping in equal parts full-caff and decaf, and then she brews that shit to perfection. Like, these may be the most beautiful shots of espresso she's ever pulled, just the right amount of crema on top, the aroma deep and rich and nutty.

It's warm by the espresso machine, and Hermione's thoughts drift away from Hot Woman as she goes through the rest of the motions automatically. She thinks about how hot this summer has been, and how they need to get the AC fixed in this place, and how the idiot waiting for his friend at the door is letting all their cold air out, and then she remembers why she asked Ginny to take over bar in the first place, because it's so damn hot and she was sweating twenty minutes into her shift. Oh well, the sacrifices one makes for love.

She briefly fantasizes about going home, filling her bathtub with ice and sitting in it.

And then she finishes the drink.

She ignores the orders piling up next to her and walks out onto the floor, ready to deliver the most precious cargo she's ever carried.

Hot Woman is still on the phone, all business-lady-like, and she seems annoyed at whoever she's talking to, but when she turns and sees Hermione, her demeanor changes entirely.

"One second, Sirius." And then she takes the phone away from her ear and smiles at Hermione, and Hermione feels like she is Samwise, and the drink is Frodo, and she's made it up to the top of Mordor with Frodo and the ring and her quest is completed. She grins, triumphant and proud, and holds out the coffee.

"One half-caff, iced oat milk latte… oh no." Hot Woman's face falls, and Hermione wants to curl up into a ball and die. "You're the hot one. I mean, you totally ordered hot."

"I did," says Hot Woman, but to Hermione's complete surprise, she's entirely chill about it. Hermione expected to get eaten out - er, _chewed out_ like that poor soul Sirius on the phone, but there goes Hot Woman with her pleasant smile again. "I know it's odd for this time of year, but I've never gotten used to those cold drinks the kids like these days." YES, same! It ruins perfectly good espresso, Hermione wants to say, but instead she's beating herself up over her mistake, because of course this absolute goddess has taste and she never should have insulted her with an _iced latte of all things_ —

"I'm _so_ sorry!"

When Hot Woman lightly places her hand on her shoulder, Hermione short circuits.

"It's no problem," she says calmly, and Hermione thinks Hot Woman has noticed how flustered she is, because she gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I'm not in a rush."

"Of course. I'll remake it for you, just a sec."

"Thank you, darling."

Darling. _Darling._

GOD.

One more smile, and then she brings the phone back up to her ear and puts on the Scary Face again.

"Sirius, I swear to fucking God if you move money around again without consulting me — " is all Hermione hears as she turns around and makes a beeline for the espresso bar.

Woweee. Okay. So.

Hermione needs a cold shower. Nope! Don't think about cold things. Hot hot hot hot hot. Hot Latte.

She once again pays no attention to the stack of coffee orders on the counter, and instead makes this drink with meticulous precision. Grind the espresso. Tamp the espresso. Pull the shots. Steam the milk. Pour the espresso into the to-go cup. Pour the milk over the espresso, and make latte art, even if it's a to-go order and she won't see it. A heart. So that, hopefully, Hot Woman can taste the love. Lid. Drink sleeve. Boom.

She walks back over to Hot Woman with renewed confidence. This drink is perfect. Hot Woman rolls her eyes at whatever Sirius is saying over the phone and ends the call without saying goodbye. She once again softens at the sight of Hermione, and although Hermione has an unfortunate attraction to mean people, she's very glad to not be on the receiving end of this particular woman's ire. At least, not at work. Somewhere else maybe, like a bed or against a wall — nope, focus Granger. F O C U S.

"Alright," Hermione says, "one hot oat milk latte with — _shit."_ FUCK. NO!

Hot Woman looks over her own shoulder, probably following Hermione's wide-eyed look of horror and expecting to see Godzilla coming toward them outside the window.

"Is something wrong?" She asks, when she doesn't spot Godzilla or any other impending danger.

"No, you just ordered half-caff, and this is full. I'm so sorry, let me just remake this, and I'll get you a voucher for a free drink — " She's rambling now, and about to run back to the bar again, but Hot Woman stops her.

She's amused by Hermione's panic, it seems, and she chuckles, softly, and the sound is dark and gorgeous, just like her.

"No need, it's okay. I'll take this one."

"No really, I can do it no problem, it's completely my fault!"

"Listen." And here she goes with the hand on the shoulder again and fffffddd df fnfnnfnnhggggggg. Their eye contact is complete and close and electric, and Hot Woman speaks slowly, deliberately through a smile — the demure one that Hermione imagined earlier, mischievous and scheming. "My sister is cutting caffeine and she bullied me into joining her in solidarity. I'm honestly dying for a fix and she doesn't have to know."

And then Hot Woman _winks at her,_ and Hermione almost drops the drink. She doesn't, thankfully, but she catches Hot Woman's eyes glancing quickly down at her hands, her hands that are now throttling the latte so that little bits of liquid bubble up through the hole in the lid.

Hot Woman takes pity on her, grabs the cup from her hands, and a choir of angels sing as Hot Woman's black-nailed, exquisitely manicured fingers brush her own and, and…

She takes a sip and makes the most sinful groan Hermione has ever heard in her life.

"It's perfect," Hot Woman says. "Thank you."

"Of course." I would die for you. "Have a wonderful day!"

"You, too. Goodbye, now." Hot Woman waves, and leaves.

"Goodbye," Hermione says to the glass door once it closes. She imagined a lifetime together in the few minutes that Hot Woman spent in the coffee shop, and watching her go feels a bit like grief.

"Hermione?"

All she sees is a mane of bouncy black hair growing smaller as Hot Woman walks further down the street. Away from her. Forever.

"Yes, Percy?"

"We need you back on bar."


	2. Chapter 2

It's the weekend when Hot Woman comes in again, and Hermione's missed her terribly in the interim. She's loved and lost a fair amount of women in the meantime, of course, even a particularly dark-featured, raven-haired beauty that she attempted to substitute for the Real Thing but quickly dumped (in her mind) once she'd ordered an icy, blended, caramel tragedy that made Hermione realize they wouldn't be compatible in the long run. But seeing Hot Woman here again, now, makes Hermione feel foolish for ever thinking anyone could compare, could hold a candle to — to — well, Hermione still doesn't know her name.

It's Saturday, and Hot Woman doesn't look like she's in Business Lady Mode. Her dress slacks have been replaced with a pair of tight black jeans, her blazer and blouse with a simple grey v-neck that accentuates her ample cleavage (and how can Hermione's eyes _not_ be drawn to it when she's layered a few delicate, thin-chained necklaces around her neck, the stones and charms of which rest tantalizingly close to the swell of her breasts). She's forgone her heeled boots for some suede flats, has draped her curly hair easily across one shoulder instead of neatly over both, and the irritated furrow of her brow is gone, replaced with an ease, a relaxation that Hermione only saw in brief spurts during their previous rendezvous.

It's really hot, to see this side of her. Intimate. Hermione feels privileged to get a glimpse of her with her guard down, and she briefly imagines going on holiday together — maybe Tuscany, meandering through the vineyards hand-in-hand, Hot Woman with her Weekend Face on and not a care in the world, in a strappy little sundress and sandals, and suddenly Hermione can't get the thought of bare shoulders and bare calves out of her mind, and does she have any freckles? Tattoos? Scars? What color are her toenails painted?

"What can I get for you today?"

Hot Woman smiles at Hermione, in a way that hints at vague recognition but only just.

"One hot," and she pauses here, briefly, to let the word breathe, in polite but intentional emphasis, assuring Hermione that she does in fact remember her and oh, how her heart skips a beat at the thought that she's occupied even a sliver of this divine being's mind, even if it was as the incompetent barista, "half-caff oat milk latte, and one — " she looks down at her phone, squinting, and Hermione hears the familiar _zoomp_ of a text message being received. "One, God, I'm sorry," she grimaces, "one 'decaf no-foam cashew milk latte with two pumps of sugar-free vanilla and one pump of full-sugar vanilla, a sprinkle of cinnamon, extra hot.' Fucking ridiculous."

She sighs and rolls those eyes and fucking yum yum yum yum yum Hermione wants to eat her UP, except fuck _wait!_ She's ordering for two people, and Hermione sees their Christmas card in her mind's eye again, except Hot Woman slowly fades away and Hermione's smile turns into a frown and Bitsy and Minnie and Butterscotch are fighting now, because Hot Woman was the thread that held their family together and now she's _gone._

She's ordering for someone else, someone who is going to meet her here, probably her husband, or her boyfriend, or whatever gender of significant other she has, because, truly, the idea that this woman is _not_ taken is preposterous, really, like, if someone _isn't_ tapping that sweet, round ass on the daily then it's just like _why?_ What is the point of someone so perfect existing if they aren't being fucking worshipped by someone every second of every day, the way they deserve to be?

Good for them, whoever they are, Hermione thinks to herself. At least Hot Woman is happy, and that's all Hermione's ever really wanted for her, even if it hurts.

"I've had worse orders, no worries," and Hermione can't help but sigh wistfully, grateful for everything they had even if it couldn't last. Because it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all, right? So she smiles her best customer service smile, having already entered the order into the computer the way only an expertly experienced barista could.

And then, for good measure:

"One extra-ice, regular milk latte and one tepid black coffee."

Hot Woman looks confused, before Hermione points finger guns at her and _pew pew pew_. 

"Juuuuust kidding. That would be funny though, right?"

The look on her face is — well, Hermione can't quite place it. Somewhere between skeptically bemused and brimming with secondhand embarrassment. "Sure."

Eeeek. Okay. Calm down, Hermione. Hold your horses. Too much.

"For here or to go?"

"For here, please."

YES. Yes. yes.

But also, shit, because that means Hermione has to play it cool for however long Hot Woman and her husbando or whomever the fuck is joining her decide to hang out. The Universe, ever in perfect balance, provides Hermione with a blessing at the same time as it provides her with a curse.

She goes through her mental checklist of what _not_ to do: Don't stare. Don't make too much eye contact. Don't go clean her table more than twice. Don't ask her if she needs anything — this is a counter-service establishment, not a restaurant, she hears Percy lecture in her head. Her intentions will be transparent if she suddenly starts waiting a table while everyone else in the coffeeshop has to go get their own refills. It's a terrible habit she has, and Percy's gotten onto her about it more than once, always complaining about the slew of pretty girls that show up on her days off expecting to be doted upon, only to be confused and disappointed when they're treated like everyone else when Hermione isn't there to bend to their every whim.

All in all: Act normal, Granger. Be cool. Treat her like every other customer. Don't tell stupid jokes. Don't be weird. You can do it. (Oh, the lies we tell ourselves).

Hot Woman looks confused again when she sees the number flash on the register.

"That can't be my total."

"You didn't let me give you a free drink voucher last time, so I'm giving you my shift drink."

"I told you, there's really no need," Hot Woman insists.

"I know, but please just let me. It's the least I can do."

Hot Woman looks around, a bit self-conscious at taking so much time with her order, but she relaxes again when she notices there's no one else behind her in line.

"Well, I suppose if you insist."

"I do." Ugh. So much for not laying it on thick.

Hot Woman inclines her head in a quick, curt nod. "Thank you." And then she offers up her card.

It's a different one this time. A personal one. _Narcissa Black,_ it says, and _fuck yes,_ Hermione finally knows Hot Woman's name, and she does her best to keep her face impassive even though she's doing body rolls in her mind, the kind she does in her living room after too many hard seltzers. Narcissa; never has there been a name so sweet to hear — er, to read, at least.

"If you could just sign the copy on the bottom, please, and the one on top is for you to keep." Eight million times better than Tuesday's unconsciously sexual faux pas. She's been practicing for this day, the day she finally gets to redeem herself, and so far she's, well… not doing spectacularly, but also not doing _terribly,_ so, she'll count that as a win.

"Hmm, yes, I remember," Narcissa murmurs as she signs. "You beneath me."

The look in her eye suggests nothing out of the ordinary, like she hasn't just set nuclear bomb off in Hermione's loins, and for the briefest of moments Hermione considers the possibility that she's so homosexually touched in the head that she's projecting and only hearing what she wants to hear, but when Narcissa quirks an eyebrow and slides the receipt back slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact… Hermione's not quite sure anymore.

"Right," she squeaks. And Narcissa seems pleased with that reaction, and with herself.

"Thank you, darling." She gives Hermione a quick once over, her black eyes trailing up and down what she can see of her from the other side of the counter, and Hermione feels like she's about to combust, even more so when Narcissa bites her bottom lip and doesn't quite grin but doesn't quite not.

And then Hermione catches a whiff of pine and cinnamon as Narcissa Black Hot Woman Hot Latte walks away and makes for a table in the corner.

Fuck — did that just — did _she_ just — ?

Hermione's never made drinks so fast, or with such precision. But she wants Narcissa back, and wants to hear her deep groan of approval as she takes the first sip of her perfectly prepared latte. She adds the finishing touches: for Narcissa, a heart, because it's cute, and fun, and people like hearts in their lattes for photos and shit, right? There's no need for anyone to read into it, definitely not, it's just a simple heart in a simple latte and it has nothing to do with being madly in something with this woman. All people have hearts. All people like to drink…hearts… anyways. A heart for Narcissa. And Hermione wants Narcissa to feel special, and singular, so she _can't possibly_ do the same latte art in her companion's drink, so she improvises and… and… fuck, she's made a snail. Is that weird? It's a good snail, and it's smiling, and cute, but who wants a snail in their drink? Or, what if Narcissa LOVES snails, is in the snail business or something, and wishes SHE got the snail and not the heart — n o no. No no no. NO. Shut up, gay-brain. BE COOL. Calm and cool and collected. Narcissa whomst? Never heard of her. Just another customer. An obscenely attractive one. NO. Stop.

"Order for Narcissa!"

Narcissa looks up, but seems confused. Again. And God, is her confused face delicious. The way she purses her lips and squints a little… ugh. To die for.

"Narcissa?" Hermione says, a little louder this time, smiling when Narcissa finally meets her eyes and something clicks. She stands up and walks over the the counter. (Back to Hermione, where she belongs).

"Oh, uh, that's my sister, actually. It's her card. She's parking."

Heh. Not her husband! Her sister! A step in the right direction, at least, although maybe her husband just doesn't like coffee and is waiting for Not Narcissa at home. But this is definitely an interesting development.

'Then who are you?' Hermione wants to ask. 'What beautiful name have the Gods bestowed upon you, a Goddess walking the Earth amongst mere mortals? Also what is your phone number and have you thought about who you would like to cater our wedding?'

However, "Identity theft is not a joke, Jim," is all she manages to say.

"I'm sorry?"

"I, uh," she stammers. Fuck, why is she such an idiot? "Come on, you haven't seen _The Office?"_

It comes out more accusatory than she intended, but she's really more incredulous than anything, because _who hasn't seen The Office?_

"Bella! You're driving next time."

Hermione is saved by a blonde woman — fuck, she's gorgeous, too, and they have to be related, because the family resemblance is uncanny despite their starkly different coloring.

The Artist Formerly Known as Narcissa carries a Birkin bag, Hermione's noticed, but it's black and understated and her only outward indication of wealth. This new woman, however, is dripping in designer — red bottoms, Givenchy sunglasses, a watch that's definitely worth a year's rent in Hermione's flat. She even _smells_ expensive.

"I had to park eight blocks away!" She huffs, and clicks and clacks across the floor to stand next to her sister. "These shoes are _not_ meant for walking that far." She pushes back her sunglasses to reveal piercing blue eyes, and she levels her sister with a glare that only turns Hermione on _a little._

"Narcissa," Hermione says matter-of-factly, gesturing to the woman and beaming at — at Bella — like she just figured out a rudimentary maths problem and is showing her teacher, hoping to get a sticker for her good work.

"I — " and here Actual Narcissa notices her for the first time, and gives her a cursory once over, and it feels like ice in all the ways that Bella's gaze feels like fire. It's a sexy ice, though, and not at all unkind; rather, it's intense and cool and not so different from diamonds that encircle her wrist. "Sorry?"

"You're her sister, and your name is Narcissa."

"...yes." She raises an eyebrow, and it's becoming clear that the expression runs in the family.

"And you're Bella."

Bella does a terrible job at hiding her smirk.

"I am, yes."

"And I'm Hermione." Hermione points to her nametag and smiles like an idiot.

"Hello, Hermione," Bella grins.

The sound of her name coming from those lips, from that mouth, from this _woman_ makes Hermione's ***** ***** *** ****** *** **** **** *******. She'll have to ****** *** ********* *** *** *** *** when she gets home, because God Fucking Shit Fucking Damn Fucking Fuck Holy HELL.

Narcissa, meanwhile, has observed this entire exchange in silence, looking suspiciously back and forth between Hermione and Bella, who have lost all awareness that she's even there and are still staring into each other's eyes, Bella trailing a finger over the rim of her mug and Hermione fiddling with the tie of her apron. After it's become quite ridiculous, Narcissa politely clears her throat.

Bella and Hermione break eye contact, both looking anywhere but each other, and Hermione feels a blush creep up her neck, and swears she can see the same thing happening to Bella in her periphery.

"You're hot — uh your hot latte," she stammers, and pushes the drinks toward Bella and Narcissa. "Here it is. And yours, too." She glances up, and the look Narcissa is giving her now is so cooly calculating that it's unnerving, and Hermione is sure she knows _exactly_ what's going on.

"Thank you," Narcissa says, and grabs her drink without pause in her process of visually cataloguing Hermione's every microexpression.

Suddenly, with viper-like speed, she snatches the receipt from Bella's hand and scans it, and when she sees that Bella has tipped 100% she rolls her eyes.

"Thank you, Hermione," she says, and shoots her a polite smile before grabbing Bella and dragging her to their table.

Hermione overhears their conversation as they go.

"Ow! What, Cissy? They're very nice here."

"Right. I'm sure you insisted on coming all the way into Central London for the customer service experience, hmm?"

"The coffee's good!"

Narcissa takes a sip of her drink (paying absolutely no mind to Poor Mr. Cashew Milk Snail as he disappears forever, God rest his gentle soul).

"The coffee's mediocre and I know you know that because you're an espresso snob. You're transparent, Bella."

"Excuse me?"

And that's the last thing Hermione hears as they sit down at their table and out of earshot, and before she promptly, silently, internally, loses her gay mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started as a way to eschew my perfectionist tendencies and write more stream-of-consciousness style, and it has really helped me stop obsessing over things like structure, whether people will like it, etc. which are things I struggle with when writing storms stir. 
> 
> I’m becoming less neurotic about what I post because of this fic, which is very exciting! Hopefully that will bleed over into my other stuff as well and allow me to update more things more often without having perfectionist meltdowns in the process.
> 
> I’m having so much fun writing this, and I’m glad to see some people are having fun reading it! Thank you so much for the love, you guys rock.

Don't look. Just clean. Don't look. Just clean. Don't look. Just clean.

She repeats the mantra in her head and wipes down the counter with a hot cloth.

For the sixth time.

She wipes it again, and again, and again, and finally, at the end of her ninth go, she chances a glance to the other side of the shop and —

 _Let's Stay Together_ by Al Green plays faintly in the recesses of Hermione's mind, because Bella Black Hot Woman Hot Latte is still there, beautiful as she's ever been, and Hermione is in love.

She's been here for hours, working on her laptop and scribbling notes on a pile of papers that seems to never shrink. She has a habit of chewing the end of her pen when she's concentrating — she's doing it now, as she cross-references the paper in her hand with something on her computer screen — and she occasionally leans back so far in her chair that the front legs leave the floor and she balances precariously on the back two.

Hermione can tell when she gets an email from someone stupid, because the scowl that flits across her features is lethal, and she puts annoyance and dissatisfaction behind every tap of her fingers on the keyboard.

Ah, her moody little Boss Babe. So sweet, when she wants to be (like when she's ordering coffee, which is actually the only time they ever interact). But able to turn that off in the blink of an eye, when someone's incompetence must be dealt with.

(Okay, so, like, she doesn't really know Bella at all, but she's a quick study, and she _knows her_ , even if she doesn't _know her._ It's this magnetic feeling that she can't really describe, but it hits her like a ton of high-quality, hand-crafted, farm-to-table bricks every time the woman walks through the door. It's like they've met, even though they haven't. Well, they have now, obviously, but it's like she _knows_ her, even though she doesn't, even though she does, which, okay, she's established already that _she does_ at the beginning of this internal monologue… even though she doesn't. You know? It's like… it's like they're destined to meet in every universe. Some more fantastical than this one, maybe, and others more mundane. But always, _always_ , Hermione is sure, they cross paths. It's the only way to explain how drawn she is to her).

Bella has taken to stopping in before work several days a week to get her morning to-go latte, always insisting on waiting in line and ordering from her at the counter rather than calling ahead to have it waiting, which Hermione has informed her several times is an option. Their interactions on those days are quick, but Hermione likes to think they're meaningful.

She's only gotten coffee to stay once before now — last weekend, with Narcissa. The two sisters hung around for a couple of hours, but the afternoon rush was such that Hermione barely had time to glance their way before they left. When she'd gone to clean the table, though, she found a napkin in front of Bella's seat, covered in doodles; a flower, a snake, a bunch of little mindless swirls and dots.

She kept it. Which is… not weird at all, of course. Especially when Hermione feels that every time they meet could be the last, and even the thought of that makes her heart twist with dread.

Hermione has given up trying not to go all fully obsessed crazy lady. Life is hard, the world is on fire, and Hermione just wants this one thing; not even the real thing, just her cute little thought adventures. They make her happy. They give her somewhere to escape to when the troubles of her life are too much to bear. She's always been one to fantasize and daydream, to cope with reality by rejecting it and substituting her own. And as long as she keeps it cool, as long as she doesn't let her delusions bleed into real life then who is she hurting? Only herself. And she can live with that.

So she lets her mind wander. Let's herself feel this, even though the rational part of her brain (which is, coincidentally, the smallest part of her brain) reminds her time and time again that it's not healthy. That she shouldn't get attached — because what happens when Bella stops coming here? What happens when she's gone forever?

Fortunately, Hermione's primary residence is in a quaint little village called 'Denial.' It's just up the lane from the sleepy hamlet of 'Compartmentalism,' and a rock's throw from the unincorporated municipality of 'Trauma She Hasn't Dealt With Properly' (the City Council meetings there are the _worst_ ) _._

Living where she does, Hermione can push those less fun thoughts away for now.

Because Bella Black is here. And Hermione can deal with dealing with things later.

It's dark out. Almost closing time.

… _I know who I want to take me home_ — wait. No, Hermione. Al Green. We were listening to Al Green, not Semisonic.

_IIIII'm so in love with you, whatever you want to do, is alright with meeeeeeee._

Better.

The coffee shop is empty, save for the two of them.

There are two empty mugs on Bella's table, and one filled half-way with a hot, oat-milk latte, full caff. ("Fuck Narcissa. I need to stay up late tonight and go over these proposals. She doesn't do shit. Don't tell her I said that." Wink. Gay puddling. "Ha. I won't. That would be weird. Bella said 'fuck you,' by the way. Ha. Heh." "..." "...right?" Raised eyebrow. Mortification. ...tiny smile. Thanking of God.)

Bella takes a sip. Hermione would like to take a sip of Bella.

She sets the mug down _oh god oh fuck_ she's got a little bit of foam on her lip and GOD IT'S SO CUTE, and then… THEN! Her tongue swipes out and she licks… the… foam...

Hermione wants to know what else that mouth do.

She watches Bella stretch, cat-like, her hands over her head, her back arching, her breasts being pushed forward.

 _Ding._ Another e-mail. Another grimace. And then the disdainful _tap tap tap tap tap tap tap_ of long, black nails on the keyboard.

_Cause youuu make me feel so brand neeeeew. And I want to spend my life with youuuuu._

Hermione sighs.

Hermione dreams.

It's their wedding, maybe.

And since this was the song they danced to on their first date, Hermione is singing it to her blushing bride, in front of all their friends and family.

Hermione wears a smart, tailored suit, with pants that hug her bangin' bod and taper just above her ankle, and a suit jacket that's cinched at the waist, and a silky, white, strappy top, and her tits are like, _out,_ and they look fucking great, and somehow Hermione has managed to walk all night in a sinfully tall pair of this season's Louboutins — hand picked for her, of course, by Narcissa, who's crying tears of happiness next to her sister.

And Bella — oh, Bella. _Her Bella._ Bella Black-Granger — because they're married and have hyphenated names now! — Bella is a sight to behold, in her strapless cream dress, so chic and yet so classic at the same time. And fuck if she's not the most beautiful bride to have ever brided, with her inky black curls pinned up in an elegant updo that's left her shoulders bare and her cleavage on full display, cleavage that's _Hermione's, now, because they're married, and Hermione can motorboat them anytime she wants because that's what marriage means._

Bella Black-Granger watches her as she sings _their song_ (and she has a good voice, for the record. In this fantasy Hermione is a Renaissance woman who's good at everything) and holds her hand, and Hermione looks into her eyes and can't help but get lost in them as the rest of the crowd fades into the background, and then it's just them, on the dance floor, at their wedding, and Hermione pulls Bella up from her chair and gives her a twirl and a dip and the music swells, and everyone claps and cries, and then Ginny gives a Best Woman-Man speech about the day she witnessed their first interaction at Weasley's Coffee and Tea, and then they get wasted and smash cake in each other's faces, before they make sweet, sweet love all night in their luxury suite at the Mandarin Oriental.

And maybe they honeymoon in Bali —

"Extra-hot skim milk latte, four shots. And don't burn them like the last time."

Hermione blinks.

Ah. This asshole again. Smarmy and self-important, rude and boorish. John, or Jake, or something. She's never bothered to remember, because he's a Grade-A douche-canoe who apparently only lives to make her life miserable.

He's never satisfied. The milk is either too foamy, or not foamy enough. The drink is always too cold, or too hot, or whatever complaint he can pull out of his ass on any given day.

Hermione wonders, often, why he insists on coming back time and time again, if their coffee is so shit.

"Are you awake, lady?"

"Yes," Hermione says through gritted teeth.

"Doesn't seem like it. I have somewhere to be, so if you could speed it up a bit, that would be great."

Hermione plasters on a smile so forced, so fake, that she's sure she looks demented.

"One extra-hot, four-shot, skim milk latte," she sing-songs. "Anything else?"

"No burning the espresso, did you get that?"

_nO bUrNiNg ThE eSpReSsO, dId YoU gEt ThAt?_

I will eat your firstborn, Sir.

"Yes, I got that. Will that be all?"

"Sure."

sUrE.

"That'll be six even."

"Did you raise your prices? At Starbucks that's five, tops — "

"We're not Starbucks, Sir. We're a locally-owned, family-run establishment. And our prices haven't changed in three years."

"Are you talking back to me? I'm the customer, haven't heard that the customer is always right?"

"Sir, I'm just responding to the question you asked — "

"What an attitude you have for someone working behind the counter at a coffee shop. How old are you? You should have a real job by now. Are you too stupid for University?"

"I'm not — " she tries.

"Your generation is so entitled! You lot have no manners, and you think you should get paid more for doing a job that a monkey could do!"

Hermione is so, so tired. She's worked a double shift. She has homework to do when she gets to her flat, and back-to-back classes starting at eight tomorrow morning. She's not too stupid for University — she's at Uni right now, working her ass off everyday. But it seems like she's the only one, sometimes. Her peers don't have to work half as hard as she does. They all come from money, and trust funds, and their parents have paid the rent on their flats for the year.

Hermione's parents are dead. Hermione barely scrapes by every month. When Hermione's not working, she's at school. When Hermione's not at school, she's working. Hermione doesn't sleep much, so sometimes her in-class performance suffers — and that? _That does_ make her feel stupid. She's trying her fucking best, putting up with ruthless professors and entitled customers almost every day of her life, and she's _so mad_ that out of all of them, this fucking guy is the one who's going to break her. She doesn't want to break. Not at work, not in front of — in front of —

But she's exhausted.

And so, the tears come.

They don't fall freely. She's managed that, at least. But her eyes well up and her lips begin to tremble, and she can't help the pathetic waver in her voice as she quietly insists:

"I'm not stupid."

No sooner than John-Jake-The-A-Hole opens his mouth to reply, Bella slides up next to him.

"Is this man bothering you, darling?"

She smiles gently, reassuringly, and it makes Hermione feel safe. But only briefly. Because as much as Hermione wants to say yes, he is, please help, she's overcome with shame. She feels weak, and worthless, and she's mortified to be seen in such a vulnerable state by _her_ of all people.

So it's "No," that she says. "It's fine." Bella's face falls and her eyes search Hermione's, clearly not convinced.

"It's not fine!" The man butts in. He leans over the counter and jabs his finger in Hermione's face. He's growing red and he's… he's scary. This is scary. "This girl is rude and — "

Bella slides between them, effectively shielding Hermione from his view. She spins around to face him, and although Hermione can't see the woman's face, now, she can tell by the sound of her voice that the look on it must be deadly.

"If you do not leave immediately," she drawls, low and venomous, "I will make you."

"Are you threatening me?" Hermione can't see him, either, but he sounds a bit unhinged.

"I think you're threatening us. Two women, alone at night, and a belligerent man getting into our personal space?"

Bella Black Hot Woman Hot Latte does something, then, that Hermione could not have predicted in a million years; she reaches into her jacket and pulls out, of all things, a pearl-handled switchblade. She flicks it open easily, lazily, and points the blade directly at the irate man in front of her. "I may have to act drastically in self-defense. Your call."

Hermione is crying. Hermione is miserable. Hermione is embarrassed. But now Hermione is also an extremely confused type of turned on.

JakeJohn is not. He's more, how do you say, right and properly scared shitless.

Nice.

"Look, lady, I don't want any trouble — "

"I said _get out."_ Bella steps toward him.

"Okay! Okay!" He holds his hands up in surrender. "I'm leaving, you fuckin' psycho!" He steps back quickly, nearly tripping over his own feet when Bella steps with him, backing him all the way into the door — which he promptly opens and runs out of as Bella shouts, "Don't come back!"

Bella watches, makes sure he's far, far away, before she finally shuts the door and turns around to face Hermione...

Whose red, teary eyes are now as wide as saucers and whose mouth is hanging open in disbelief.

Bella Black Hot Woman Hot Latte Knife-u Waifu clears her throat and quickly puts the knife away before approaching Hermione at the counter. She's searching her face again, and she looks concerned.

"Are you alright?"

Did — did that just happen? Did Bella just go all Knight in Shining Armor on her ass? Did she just threaten someone at knifepoint for her honor? Did she just frighten the piss out of a grown man, all in the name of protecting her?

This woman, this beautiful, ethereal thing beyond Hermione's every wildest imaginings, whom Hermione has projected upon and loved and lived lifetimes with in her head? She? _Her?_ _Bella Black?_

It's a lot.

It's so much.

And maybe the whole ordeal was a little frightening. What if it had escalated? What if Bella wasn't here?

The combination of the extremes — the elation, the relief, the anxiety of the what-ifs, the ????? probably horniness because KNIFE — it's all rattled her a bit.

"You carry a knife," she says, softly. She can't quite get her breathing under control.

"I do." A moment of silence passes between them, and Bella looks unsure.

Hermione sniffles. "That's pretty cool."

"I suppose so." Bella's lips quirk.

And… Hermione giggles, despite herself.

Bella laughs, too, and the sound is throaty and dark and _perfect,_ and then they're laughing together for a short and beautiful moment as all the tension finally leaves the room, and then _oh no —_

Hermione's gone from laughing to crying. Fuck. No, no, no, not right now. Don't ruin the moment you dumb, over-emotional shitbag!

"Hermione, are you alright?" Bella asks again, this time with a hand on hers, worry evident in her tone.

No. "Yes, I'm — " _hiccup._ "I'm fine, I'm just." _sniff_.

"Come sit down, sweetness."

Hermione feels dizzy, and maybe it's the rush of adrenaline, maybe it's the exhaustion, the tears, maybe it's the fact that she's being touched, being led firmly, but gently, to Bella's table, _by Bella,_ by an actual piece of stardust fallen from the Heavens, and she's just been called _sweetness._

She sits in the chair Bella pulls out for her, drinks from the water bottle Bella offers her, and watches Bella march to the door and change the sign from 'Open' to 'Closed.'

And then Bella is sitting in the chair next to her, rubbing a soothing hand up and down her back and easing Hermione away from the edge of a full-blown panic attack.

_Safe._

Hermione is safe. Hermione can breathe. Hermione is okay.

Bella doesn't poke and prod her with questions — instead, she waits patiently for her to calm down, her hand never pausing its comforting, delightful ministrations.

And that's exactly what Hermione needs.

She isn't sure how long they sit there, but eventually her breathing evens out and her tears dry. She finds her voice, somehow.

"I'm sorry. I'm usually better at not having emotional meltdowns at work," she tries to joke.

Bella’s eyebrows do the furrow, and Hermione’s heart does the thumpy-thump.

"You have nothing to apologize for."

Hermione smiles at that, small and grateful. _Safe._ She takes a steadying breath.

"He just hit a nerve. And I'm tired, and a little bit stressed."

Bella's hand slides around from Hermione's back, down her arm to squeeze her hand, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

"I'm sure you are. I know what it's like."

Hermione doesn't mean to make the face she does, but it happens too quickly for her to stop it. It's one of silent judgement. Of appraisal, and distrust. Her eyes flick to Bella's Birkin bag, and then across the table to her various electronic devices — the newest MacBook, an iPhone Hermione is not even sure has come out yet, a tablet wrapped in an understated but clearly expensive leather case. She's infatuated with this woman, yes, but she has no patience for people who pretend to know her struggle.

She raises an eyebrow, and drags her gaze back to Bella's.

"You do?"

And fuck, if she doesn't regret it immediately, when Bella pulls her hand away.

She she starts to fidget with the hem of her jacket, her eyes taking the same path as Hermione's.

"Yes. I come from a — " She clears her throat, and faces Hermione again. "Well, I grew up privileged, I don't want to give you any illusions otherwise, but Mum and Dad made us work over the summers when we weren't at school. And I had to pay for University myself."

"Really?"

"Yes. They insisted it would build character."

Hmm. Not quite rags to riches, and definitely no bootstrap pulling, but… Hermione's actually impressed. And suddenly a lot of things start to make sense.

Hermione narrows her eyes. "That's why you're so nice to me." 

She wants to bottle the blush that creeps onto Bella's cheeks, bring it into the hardware store and have them color match it so she can use it to paint her walls.

"Well, I suppose that's part of it," Bella says. She's still blushing, and Hermione's still gay. "It's a difficult job, I don't ever want to make it worse," she says around a wry smile.

"You don't. Trust me."

It's Hermione's turn to blush, because she doesn't mean for that to tumble out of her big, dumb mouth.

But she's not sure Bella minds, because they're staring at each other now, looking deeply into each other's eyes. Hermione is suddenly aware of how close they are, and how good Bella's perfume smells, and how her black eyes have a ring of brown around them.

_Ringggg. Ringggg. Ringggggggggggg._

Fuck.

Hermione jumps out of her chair.

"I should, um, get that, it's my boss."

Bella sits back.

"Right, right."

"Thank you, for um. For all the — " Hermione gestures awkwardly.

Bella nods a few too many times. "It's not a problem. Anytime."

Hermione runs behind the counter to answer the phone, and quickly gives Percy a rundown of the day's sales numbers. By the time she’s done, Bella has packed up her things and is waiting by the door, fiddling with the straps of her bag in the adorable way she does.

"Have a good night," she says, after Hermione hangs up the phone and begins to wrap up pastries for tomorrow's Day-Old basket.

And Hermoine panics, maybe, and before she can think the better of it she blurts out, "Could you — I — "

Fuck — wAIT — ABORT ABORT ABORT —

"Hmm?"

"Nevermind, have a wonderful night!"

Bella must sense her panic (no doubt by the painfully high pitch of her voice) and she approaches the counter with a warm smile and a knowing look.

"Hermione," she says softly, "would you like me to stay? In case he comes back?"

Hermione wishes it was for hornier reasons, so that she could retain at least a sliver of her dignity, but truthfully, Hermione feels so much safer knowing Bella has the stabby thing in her jacket pocket, and Hermione really is scared that Johnny Small Dick is going to come back.

"I — That would be…" She sighs. She hesitates. She feels like it's too much to ask, but… she also doesn't want to be alone.

She's alone a lot. Too much.

"...That would be really, really amazing. Thank you."

"Of course." Bella smiles, and sets down her things.

_Oh baby, let's stay together. Lovin' you whether times are good or bad, happy or sad..._


End file.
